


part vii: [how can i trust you?→ERROR = I CAN'T]

by dweeblet



Series: Rooke to H1 [8]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Altered Mental States, Autistic Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Background Case, Connor (Detroit: Become Human) Has PTSD, Depression, Developing Friendships, Dissociation, Emotionally Repressed, Gavin Reed Being Less of an Asshole, Gen, Hank Anderson is Bad at Feelings, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, It Gets Worse, M/M, Machine Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Moving On, Not Happy, Suicidal Thoughts, Unrequited Lust, Weird Coping Mechanisms That Are Not Wholly Unhealthy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-22 22:37:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17671421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dweeblet/pseuds/dweeblet
Summary: “Fuck you.” Hank stands, preparing to leave the cubicle, but Jeffery catches him off-guard with a soft utterance of his name—totally antithetical to the tone of the fucked-up conversation they’ve just had.“Hank.” Jeff’s eyes are pleading beneath their steely sheen. “Things’ve changed. You’ll be a helluva lot happier if you do the same.”***Nauseous recognition dawns on his face. “Fucking—holy shit. If you—Connor—if you’re saying what I think you’re saying—”“I do not want to talk about it,” Connor repeats, turning away. Reed reaches out, puts one of his warm hands on Connor’s shoulder, and he wrenches away with an involuntary shudder. “Don’t touch me.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> CW: loads of cuss words (because hank), mentions/discussion of attempted rape/sexual assault, some implication of altered mental states, alcohol abuse, explicit suicidal ideation, general toxic relationship shit, all that
> 
> im currently planning for this part t be 2 chapters? but pls let me know if you'd rather this arc all be compressed into one fic as opposed to the parts like before

The bullpen feels more exposed than it ever did before, Hank thinks. The shitty break room coffee is tasteless. When that one forensic lab geek comes around with donuts, every bite of strawberry sprinkle tastes like ash in his mouth. It feels like everyone is looking at him, and even the littlest things about his paperwork seem utterly fucking insurmountable.

 

So it’s almost a relief, then, when Jeffery booms. “Anderson!” from his office, gesturing for Hank to get his ass over there.

 

Hank knows exactly what the fuck he deserves, and he hopes he’s gonna get it when he plods over to the captain. Some people look at him as he goes, openly curious, while others just make grim faces at him as he passes, like he’s bearing a goddamn casket or something. (He wishes.)

 

Gives him an excuse, he thinks. No job, nobody else relying on him for shit. Sumo looks at Connor like he hung the goddamn stars, and God knows that motherfucker will take the dog in a heartbeat. That leaves Hank, an empty house, and everything he needs to finish the goddamn job, gun or no gun.

 

“Come in,” Jeff orders, firm, and as Hank shuts the door behind him he turns on the privacy shades that cloud up the glass cubicle.

 

“Should I, uh, be sittin’?”

 

“I don’t give a shit, Hank. Just listen.” He circles around to his desk, pressing his palms flat over a clean manilla folder in front of his keyboard. “I already dished this shit out to everybody else who needs to know, but you weren’t answering your goddamn phone, so I had to wait for you to get here.”

 

“Sorry,” says Hank, not feeling sorry in the slightest. Jeffery should know by now that this is how shit is. It’s not like he’s had a track record of being attentive, or on time, or anything even remotely resembling productive in the past few years.

 

Jeff’s a captain for a reason, though—and his brow furrows deep, mouth set into a broad scowl as he looks Hank up and down. “Don’t,” is all he says, caging a heavy sigh behind his teeth. “Just shuddup and listen.” He sits in his office chair and steeples his fingers on the desk in front of him. “You’re being reassigned.”  

 

Hank can’t help but blink, gaze darting around the cubicle before settling back on Jeff—goddamn, that is not what he was expecting. He feels stupidly frustrated at being caught off guard. “Whatever. Why’s this call for a private session, Jeff? Coulda just told me to check my fuckin’ email or something.”

 

And then Jeff’s dark eyes harden, gaze sharpening into something flinty and cool. He’s not taking shit today. Yippee. “Because I’m giving you a warning, Hank. I’ve bailed your ass out way more than enough times before, and your disciplinary file is a fucking  _ saga _ . You were making progress, and now you’re back to square goddamn one.” 

 

He sighs openly this time, clasping his hands in front of his mouth. “You’re my friend,” he says, as though it’s still true. Seems to really mean it, and everything. “And I’ve stuck my neck out as far as I fuckin’ could for you—but this isn’t something we can keep up, and you know it.” 

 

Hank swallows a growl. “I don’t need this shit from you, too.” Fucking hell.

 

Jeff  makes a face, halfway to unreadable. “I don’t know what the hell’s going on between you’n Rooke—”

 

“What makes you think there’s shit going on?” Hank interrupts, defensively. Connor, the fucking rat. Makes him irrationally upset, considering he’d just been hoping to get the boot. Sue him for feeling just a little goddamn betrayed, though. It’s the  _ principle _ of the thing.

 

“I honestly don’t _give_ _a shit_ ,” counters Jeff, raising his hands in exasperation as he bulldozes the question. “What’s important to me is that, unlike _you_ , Rooke actually has the maturity to do his goddamn job.” He pauses, adding, “He’s a damn good cop.”

 

Hank crosses his arms. “I’m doing my job,” he argues. “I’m doing it like I’ve done it for fuckin’  _ years, _ Jeff.”

 

Fowler’s gaze burns. “Fucking hell, Hank—that’s the goddamn  _ problem _ .” He pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing. “You. Can’t. Keep. This. Up.” He punctuates each word with an emphatic wave of his hands, fingers tapping loud on the desk. That energy drains out of him, though, in short order. “Listen. Your new partner is Chen.”

 

“She’s a fuckin’ ditz—”

 

“If you don’t pull your shit together and do some good work with her, I’m declaring you unfit for service. I’ll drag you to a fucking AC myself if that’s what it takes, but I will not let a goddamn drunk continue to participate in  _ my _ force anymore.” He leans forward. “Understand?”

 

Hank bites his lip. “Fuckin’ A,” he snaps. “You just want my badge  _ now _ , motherfucker? You can have it.”

 

“In an envelope with all the required paperwork, I hope.” He looks so goddamn smug despite the tiredness lining his face. ‘Cause he knows he’s won. “Seems I missed your two weeks’ notice.”

 

“Fuck you.” Hank stands, preparing to leave the cubicle, but Jeffery catches him off-guard with a soft utterance of his name—totally antithetical to the tone of the fucked-up conversation they’ve just had. 

 

“Hank.” Jeff’s eyes are pleading beneath their steely sheen. “Things’ve changed. You’ll be a helluva lot happier if you do the same.”

 

He stays still for a long, heavy moment before slamming the door and stalking back to his desk. Connor’s spot across from him is empty—Hank scans the bullpen, searching for the kid through all of the cops milling around the space. He doesn’t see him.

 

His stomach sinks, but Hank doesn’t do anything about it. He sits down at his desk and gets back to filing paperwork, or something—a backlog of case reports and evidence processing that needs one more confirmation before being archived. Minor assignment distribution. Keeping track of the meter maids. Shit like that—the kind of menial garbage that nobody like to do, but as the local wash-up is Hank’s duty to take care of. One or two newer assaults are on the list, but the investigations aren’t over with yet, so there’s not a lot he can do on those.

 

He mostly just stares at his screen and scrolls idly up and down to make it look like he gives enough of a shit to actually be working. He thinks.

 

So. Connor fucked off into the night—again. He hasn’t seen the kid since.  _ Then _ . His throat feels dry as fuck, and his stomach turns. Maybe it’s the the hangover. Maybe not. Shit, what the fuck was he thinking? What the  _ fuck _ ? He wants to stand up and flip his goddamn desk, but his limbs all feel like lead and won’t move when he tells them to. He just keeps on sitting there, anchored like a fucking corpse. (He wishes.)

 

Blood roars in his ears and he resists the urge to bury his head in his hands. He doesn’t have the right to fucking  _ mope _ like this. He was drunk— _ so _ ,  _ so _ goddamn shitfaced it’s a wonder his liver didn’t fucking fail and kill him overnight. He barely remembers getting home. Shit, he barely remembers what Connor even  _ said _ to him. Some watery recollection of “unsustainable” this and that—but not much more comes to mind, no matter how hard he tries. 

 

But he clearly wasn’t so zoinked that he couldn’t think with his cock. Hah. 

 

He remembers being so fuckin’  _ needy _ , imagining some bliss that’d never happen in a million goddamn years. The drinks in him weren’t enough to keep him soft, in fact he was rock-hard just  _ thinking _ about that shit. Could only imagine what it’d do for him to actually try it. 

 

Would an android hole be warm? Wet? Would it  _ matter _ ? And Con  _ let _ him touch for such an agonizing minute—big eyes and tense body and mouth parted to dribble out little desperate pants at every messy kiss. He was into it, wasn’t he? Lithe hips bucking up, eager, holding on tight like he was ready to ride. 

 

Until he  _ wasn’t _ , and he nailed Hank in the stomach so hard that he hurled up his guts, or something.

 

(You’re allowed to change your mind, shithead. Doesn’t mean inflicting fucking organ damage. This is a goddamn clusterfuck.)

 

—and speak of the fuckin’ devil, Connor breezes right past Hank’s desk to cross the aisle and perch his little silicone ass on motherfucking  _ Gavin Reed _ ’s goddamn terminal. Damn. Hank already knows that they get on a helluva lot better than they did when they met. Getting the shit beat outta him put some kinda fear of God in Reed, he figures—but are they really in a place where Con prefers that weaselly fuck over  _ him _ ? Shit, is it that bad? Or is he that  _ petty _ ?

 

Reed meets the android with a reluctantly accommodating sigh, of all the things he could’ve done. No insult, no nasty look—nothing. His gaze slides past Connor, though, to settle on Hank.

 

“I knew there was some fuckery between you shitsticks,” Gavin says, deliberately loud enough for Hank to hear him at this distance. Prick. “Trouble in fuckin’ paradise. Called it.”

 

And Connor? He just fuckin’ grins. Broad and sweet and  _ chilling _ in a way that Hank can’t quite place. It’s none of that polite shit from before he deviated, or the shy little smirks from afterwards. It’s new. Shameless, but also somehow empty. It doesn’t reach his eyes. Hank drinks in the clean curve of his jaw, his curly hair, little moles speckling porcelain skin. Like a classical goddamn statue, he is—frozen in perfect eternal youth, but vacant. Uncanny. He’s  _ fucking _ with him.

 

“Not for much longer,” Connor croons, perfectly casual. His voice sounds like pepper and honey. His cold gaze land on Hank, and he looks away, pretending to work. Feels like a fuckin’ bug on a slide under that look, like it’s tearing him apart. “Not for much longer if I can help it.”

 

That’s fucking ominous.

 

Reed snorts, unbothered. “Cool it with the serial killer smile, Dexter.” Hank sneaks a glance out of the corner of his eye, but Connor doesn’t look like he’s gonna apologize the way he usually does. In fact, he doesn’t even seem to  _ consider _ saying sorry for being a creep. Instead, he blinks fast the way he always does when he’s looking something up, then barks out a short laugh. It’s unpracticed, clumsy, a little shrill, and foreign to Hank’s ears, but it seems… genuine. 

 

(Has Connor ever laughed like that with  _ him _ ?)

 

“Don’t give me any ideas, Detective.” He leans in, real fuckin’ close, vaguely awkward smile turning downright wicked despite his teasing tone. “I hope you haven’t forgotten that you’re not off the hook with me quite yet.”

 

A nervous chuckle bubbles outta Reed’s throat, but he doesn’t look all that worried. He looks at  _ Hank _ . “I know, asshole.” And back to the screen. “If we’re gonna dish out some extrajudicial justice, let’s unload on these shitstains.” He types something into his terminal, but he’s got screen privacy enabled, so Hank can’t see a damn thing he’s doing from this angle.

 

Must’ve sent Connor something, though, because the android turns more serious then, hand to his temple. “Ah,” he says, eyes fluttering as he reads the file. “Ah, hmm. The responsible reaction to your cited sources would be… skepticism…”

 

“C’mon,” Gavin all but whines. Hank wants to punch the cocksucker in the teeth. Badly. “Don’t be a square, tin can. Let’s bail before the lead moves on us.”

 

“I will drive,” Connor says. “You’re terrible at it.” He’s in skinny jeans, Hank notices when he gets up. Slate-grey and dark, they make him look like a tar-dipped heron with his long, graceful strides. He wears boots and a grey windbreaker over a white tee with an upside-down blue triangle on the breast. And shit, Hank can’t help but think—fucker looks almost just like he did the night they first met at Jimmy’s. He looks away.

 

“Directionally challenged,” Reed counters.

 

“Terrible at it.”

 

Hank doesn’t dare to look back up until the pair of their footsteps recede into the bustle of the bullpen. The door creaks and clicks shut across the room. He glances round and then gets back to work.

 

Chen shows up not too long after Con and Gavin have gone—she’s got some disgusting fig-filled pastry in one hand and a black coffee in the other. Hank  _ will _ admit, he was impressed when she shoved her brunch into her mouth and chugged the whole coffee in one long swig, ready and raring to go—but after that, she’s just a pain in his ass.

 

She’s bubbly, friendly and obnoxiously upbeat in all the worst possible fucking ways. It grates on his nerves, and Hank resists the urge to throttle her when she turns the music in his car to some pop radio station that spits out ugly autotuned party ballads. He parks in front of a little house with peeling beige paint like dead skin to check out some domestic disturbance the neighbors called in. It’s a false flag, and they go back to the precinct with nothing under their belts and tension rising hot in Hank’s throat.

 

“I hope you don’t mind me asking,” Chen begins with her elbows on Connor’s desk, leaning over to address Hank. “But why did we switch up our partnerships? Cap said it was some, like, conflict of interest thing? Did something happen?”

 

Hank doesn’t answer, scowling at his terminal in hopes that she’ll get the message and leave him the fuck alone. (She does absolutely jack shit of the sort, by the way.)

 

“I mean, I don’t wanna pressure you,” she goes on, “but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t hella curious.” Her eyes get big, and she suppresses a squeal—badly. “Are you two finally,” she wiggles her fingers suggestively, smile widening, “keepin’ company?”

 

“Abso-fucking-lutely not,” Hank snaps, slamming a fist on the table hard enough for his shitty little bonsai to jump in its pot. “Now mind your own goddamn business.”

 

Looking crestfallen, Chen stops talking. It takes visible effort for her to wire her jaw shut, but to her credit she does get it done. She keeps texting under the table, though, and Hank doesn’t miss that. Whatever. As long as she’s not up  _ his _ ass on this, Hank’ll be happy. He’s got enough shit to deal with without some nosy overgrown teenager mewling for answers about his personal life all the damn time.

 

The next day, Connor and Gavin are gone before Hank even gets to the station. Given, it’s almost noon by this point, but still. The new partnership’s assigned cruiser is missing from the auto pool in the back lot, so he knows they probably went out on official business, but asking around gets him fuck-all in terms of where they might’ve gone. Whatever.

 

It doesn’t matter, really. He’s just curious, Jesus fucking Christ. (And maybe a little nervous. A lot nervous. Anxious as all shit.)

 

Because this is  _ fucked _ six ways to Sunday. Yes, Hank knows exactly how fucked up he is. What he’s done. All that shit. And Connor? He’s a slick motherfucker at the best of times, but it’s not like he can help it, Hank guesses. It’s kind of just how he is. Like he said, stuck someplace in the past, before all the rules’n regulations got peeled away from him. It only makes sense that, with emotional butterfingers like these, the kid’d slip away sooner or later.

 

Just ‘cause it makes sense, though, doesn’t mean it feels good. As a matter of fact, it feels like a fucking active volcano in his belly, belching all this hot shame up into the rest of him like ash. There’s a sharpness to Connor that wasn’t quite there before, and Hank can’t put his finger on it, but it unsettles him something fierce. The longer he thinks about it the more nervous and sweaty he feels till he finally needs to get up from his desk and march to the bathroom.

 

He leans on the sink and splashes cool water on his face, then stares at his reflection in the mirror. His cheeks are somehow sallow and ruddy at the same time, and designer purple bags sag deep beneath his eyes like opaque industrial fishnets. His hair hangs in limp greasy clumps over his brow, and beads of water still cling to his untrimmed beard even as he stands there for minutes and minutes. Pathetic motherfucker. Dirty old man.

 

There’s not really much reason anybody would choose to stay around a soggy shit like him, he thinks.

 

Part of him is. What—Hank doesn’t fuckin’ know. But he’s  _ something _ , weak and snivelling and miserably angry at the unfairness of it all. Connor. Cole. Job. Sumo. Every time something’s looking up for him, Hank just has to go and fuck it up. And every time, he’s still got the balls to be surprised about it as though he hadn’t seen it coming. And every  _ goddamn _ time, he still can’t bring himself to stop till it’s already over and done with.

 

The common denominator here is always  _ Hank _ . Maybe God hates him, or maybe he’s just that bad a person. He has zero impulse control and this ugly pit of sadness inside him that won’t go away. Everything he does to try and relieve it ends up digging it deeper and wider and meaner till it may as well just swallow him up for good.

 

And he doesn’t know  _ why _ . And he hates himself.

 

He wants to scream, or cry, or fucking do  _ anything _ , but he can’t. He just stands there, frozen over the sink in a goddamn bathroom, staring catatonic at his own reflection like some empty stupid thing that doesn’t know himself on sight. He actually doesn’t. Some stranger stares back at him with hollow eyes. His heart beats fast but his breaths come slow, too slow. Everything feels like it’s moving through static and molasses.

 

Hank wants to die. He can’t.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mentions of noncon/sexual violence and also regular assault ;;  
> the plot is picking up! because i didnt wanna leave the case alone

 

Within the cavern of his chassis where vulture-feelings once circled and clawed, spilling and feeding on bad blood—now it is tranquilly silent, regal scavengers perched delicately on the bleached bones of his fear. At once he is naked; exposed, but there is no more vulnerable flesh to be rent and torn away. All is at peace.

 

It has taken Connor a considerable length to come upon this metaphor, but it feels right. 

 

He is under no illusion that the image is not overwrought and pretentious, but he finds that suits him just fine. It’s his to make and to keep however he pleases. His only enemy now is the decay and the misery that Lieutenant Anderson carries with him everywhere he goes, like marrow-deep pestilence without a cure. Maybe that is cruel.

 

Still, Connor was never happy playing doctor. For the first time in his life, however, he feels no  _ need _ to, and it is the most liberating sensation (or lack thereof) he has ever been pleasured with. Maybe that is sad.

 

That is irrelevant, though, because it would not change him even if it was true.

 

He once, not at all long ago, took a certain compliance with old social protocol as nothing more than a given. It was expected of him to adhere to the standards of civil society, or so was impressed upon him—and it would be to his detriment, he was told, to act against them. No matter how vicious and pathetic he thought himself in private, Connor supposes he had always felt the need to mask that part of him behind inoffensive servility.

 

An unspoken contract hangs between all human beings, dictating just what’s acceptable and what is not—and Connor has always been taught that his place is to be docile within those limits. But he is not human. 

 

That thought once curled hard and heavy at the base of his throat, filling him with a deep-seated dread at what he was. How his home was among humans, how they were all he knew, how his fellow androids were some nebulous  _ other  _ with whom he would never be able to fit in.

 

Now, though, he thinks he has finally silenced that ugly little worm that slithers through his innards, something that hisses the bidding of his old masters like a familiar to Amanda—except it is not only his passenger but a  _ part _ of him. Cyberlife may have planted it there, but Connor has nurtured it for far too long, and he hopes that now he may just be able to starve it out.

 

He keeps that philosophy in mind as he waits patiently, though not out of courtesy—in Captain Fowler’s office. He is doing this for himself. The time is exactly six forty-three AM eastern standard, and the precinct is quite empty; most of the early birds have already left to do their morning rounds, while the next wave of officers have yet to arrive. It is the only time of day at which Connor might speak with Fowler with any measure of privacy, and he intends to take full advantage of this window of opportunity.

 

Connor is prepared to slow his processing speed so the wait doesn’t seem as long, but he finds no need to when, at precisely six forty-five, Captain Fowler elbows the door open and enters the cubicle. He has a paper takeout bag in one hand and a steaming coffee in the other—Connor can taste black columbian roast in the air as it quickly fills the boxed-in office.

 

He finds himself mildly amused when Fowler finally notices him—though he’s glad that the man took the time to deposit his breakfast and coffee on the desk before turning back around. The mess would be inconvenient. It’s an understandable delay, in any event: he is at silent parade rest on the other side of the door, and the captain surely has other things on his mind.

 

“Detective Rooke,” he acknowledges, brows raised. “It’s not even seven—what’re you doing in here?”

 

What is he doing, indeed. “I did not intend to disturb your routine,” Connor says mildly. Fowler, he decides, has done nothing to warrant his disrespect, and free or not, he doubts it would be a prudent course of action to mouth off to his boss. He is self-determining, not  _ anarchist _ . So he means it when he says, “My apologies.”

 

And, true to Connor’s assessment, the captain just shrugs and sits himself down at his desk. He takes a moment to sip at his coffee before inviting Connor to sit across from him. “Relax,” he suggests, not quite gentle, but the civility of his demeanor is a stark contrast to his rough-edged manner when Lieutenant Anderson is present. “I assume you’ve got a reason to be here this early. Whaddya need?”

 

“Thank you, sir,” Connor says. He remains standing when Fowler gestures for him to sit, cutting straight to the point. It is blissfully easy to say when he has no obligation to tiptoe around human feelings. “You need to dissolve my partnership with Lieutenant Anderson, effective immediately if at all possible.”

 

Fowler’s expression hardens somewhat, brows drawn close together as he nurses his coffee. “Huh,” he hums thoughtfully. For a moment Connor worries that his request was too brusque and will simply be denied, and he will be forced to continue as he was—but the captain only sighs heavily. “I figured you’d ask that eventually. Had the papers waiting. It’ll be messy, sorting it all out, but I can get it done. You wanna take that serial assault case with you?”

 

Connor cocks his head, expectant—but Captain Fowler doesn’t say anything else, as though the conversation is finished. The smart thing to do would be to count his blessings and oblige, and remove himself before Fowler can change his mind, but Connor is curious by nature, and despite everything he fails to cage his question. “Is that sufficient cause? Shouldn’t I explain myself?”

 

“Listen, kid.” There’s a weariness drawing lines over Fowler’s face; he looks unspeakably tired. “You would know a helluva lot better than me that Hank’s not getting any better.” 

 

His eyes are endlessly deep and saturated with mahogany pigment, vignetted by tiny capillaries and creases and needlepoint blemishes. It’s marvelous, really, how expressive human eyes are. (Connor knows that his eyes are brown, too, but there’s a flatness to them—not quite glazed as a machine’s, but broadcasting his deficit for all the world to see. It does not needle him as it once did.)

 

That soulful  _ je ne sais quoi _ bleeds into the captain’s words as he goes on. “I’m grateful for the help you’ve given him already, ‘cause you made good progress for a hot minute, but he’s not your responsibility—he’s  _ mine _ .” 

 

The thickness of his tone makes Connor’s thirium pump regulator—it doesn’t entirely slacken, but it does stutter oddly, flooding his chest with a heavy sensation of helplessness. It is muted and far away at his own bidding, well within his control, but he recognizes the feeling as something approximating pity; gossamer empathy and selfish relief. 

 

Resignation paints Fowler’s expression into a frown, and he leans over to his computer to input something with exhausted finality. “I’ve kept Hank around ‘cause we’re friends. Used to be, anyway. Whatever—point is, I’ve done enough enablin’ for the both of us. You deserve a chance to live your goddamn life, Rooke, without getting all his baggage saddled on you. That’s sufficient cause in my book.”

 

Connor nods slowly. “Whatever happens to Lieutenant Anderson is on him. It’s on him.” He pauses, examining Fowler and  _ understanding _ in a way he cannot fully express. “We are tired.”

 

“Damn straight.” sighs Fowler. “Now, go do what you gotta do. You’re getting the good cases.” The ones he does not trust Lieutenant Anderson with. “I’ll ping you as soon as the paperwork’s finished. It’ll be done today.”

 

“Thank you, Captain.”

 

“Get outta here.”

 

***

 

“So,” Reed sighs as he slides out of his rolling chair. Connor can hear something in his spine click when he stretches with a gravelly yawn. “Que the fuck pasa, Terminator?”

 

He cocks his head, running a quick scan. “Have you been here all night, Detective?” Vitals within acceptable range, but his fine motor function appears to be operating at only sixty-percent efficiency, and his stress levels are slightly higher than normal.

 

“Maybe,” he growls, crossing his arms. That means yes, in Connor’s experience, and he pins Reed with a knowing look. “Get fucked.”

 

Connor can’t help the flinch that ripples through his systems without his consent—he clenches his jaw and averts his gaze until it passes. The half-teasing quality to Reed’s voice isn’t enough to take away the flicker behind Connor’s eyes of red-hot handprints and greedy lips and the simple, unfettered urge to  _ hurt _ that had roared up inside him.

 

He would have killed Lieutenant Anderson if that’s what it took. And make no mistake—Connor isn’t the least bit sorry about it, but for the sake of his future he cannot afford to be so helpless again. Unlike  _ Hank _ , Connor has something to live for, even if he is not positive as to exactly what that is. (Yet.) 

 

“Earth to Rookie?” Gavin is snapping his fingers approximately two point six inches from Connor’s nose. “You crash, or some shit?”

 

Connor is saved from answering by the popup that blinks at him from the periphery of his HUD; he holds up a hand to indicate that he is occupied. At the same time, Reed’s phone vibrates, and he pulls it from his pocket with a huffy sigh. There is a long moment of pregnant silence, stretched heavy between them, before Reed simply says “Oh, shit.”

 

He shuffles and leans back in his chair, limbs splayed without much intent—though it conveys his simmering aggravation well enough, Connor supposes. 

 

“Due to a conflict of interest currently under scrutiny,” Gavin reads, “you are now partnered with Detective Rooke for the foreseeable future. Get along.” Connor says nothing in reply. He already knows this, and expected something of the like beforehand. 

 

“Shitnuts,” Reed groans, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes as he stretches out and sighs. “Did the Feds do this shit?” He shakes his head. “Ah, tits—I thought the eval was clean.” Connor still says nothing—he has nothing to say until the rant is over, but that is clearly the wrong thing to do, because Reed turns on him with scrutiny. 

 

“A  _ conflict of interest _ ,” he echoes, slowly. “Tin-can, did you’n Anderson agree to be fuckbuddies?”

 

“No,” is his immediate answer. “ _ Never _ .”

 

That gets Reed’s attention. He moves slowly, pulling his desk chair back up and sitting on it, bent over with his elbows on his knees—making himself look smaller, intent and submissive. It’s an odd look on a person like Reed, Connor thinks.

 

The android still cannot bring himself to meet the detective’s wavering gaze, but he approximates the motion, staring at the tip of his crooked nose instead. 

 

Reed looks like a different man in this moment; he has a particular face on, brows pulled high against his hairline, eyes wide and mouth slightly parted. Younger, smoother in stark contrast to the persona of a rugged loner he’s so thoroughly perfected in the time Connor has known him. The Reed he met his first day at the station would never allow himself to show weakness in shock, especially not in the presence of an android.

 

Logically, he knows that it would get out to someone, eventually. Whether Lieutenant Anderson remembered enough of the night to share, or whether it is ultimately deduced from his own behavior—Connor knows that it will be discovered what happened that night. Perhaps not the worst of the details, but people would come to know, eventually. It has been an inevitability from the beginning. He still regrets that it is happening so soon. 

 

It makes his servos prickle with anxious energy, and he clenches his fists at his sides to try and disperse the pressure. “It would be unp—I—” he stumbles for the first time since waking up new. “I do not… want to talk about it.”

 

Reed doesn’t seem to have expected that response, because he gasps softly. It’s a tiny intake of breath, almost indistinguishable from his regular inhalation, but Connor can sense the tension peaking in his body, the rough twitch of his features as he tries to suppress it. His brows come down, furrowing. 

 

Nauseous recognition dawns on his face. “Fucking—holy shit. If you— _ Connor _ —if you’re saying what I think you’re saying—”

 

“I do not want to talk about it,” Connor repeats, turning away. Reed reaches out, puts one of his warm hands on Connor’s shoulder, and he wrenches away with an involuntary shudder. “Don’t  _ touch _ me.”

 

“Holy fucking  _ shit _ ,” Reed says, holding the offending limb close to his chest. Any residual sluggishness from his undenied all-nighter has bled away, leaving only disbelief and thinly veiled anger. “Fuck. I knew he was a human goddamn disaster, and I knew he was fucking with you, but I  _ never _ thought—”

 

“We are not having this conversation,” Connor interrupts, steel in his voice and in his veins. He watches his fellow detective for a long moment before asserting, “We’re not doing this.  _ I _ will handle it, myself.” He means it.

 

Reed obeys with a soft noise that Connor cannot yet decipher, but his expression does not smooth. He opens his mouth and sucks in a preparatory breath—but says nothing, scrutinizing Connor with an odd brand of horrified empathy that’s almost outright violent in its intensity, at once perfectly at home and utterly alien on Reed’s face.

 

They are partners now, and will continue to be for some time to come as far as Connor is currently aware. It is good to observe, at the very least, that Reed has no intention of being antagonistic about this, of all issues. He actually appears to be genuinely sympathetic, which is still unexpected despite the considerable progress they have made, but Connor is not complaining.

 

“Okay,” says Reed at length. “I know better than to push this shit.” He hesitates, though, before seeming to make up his mind. “Just know—fuckin’ hell. Listen.” Connor waits patiently for him to recover. His heart rate spikes when he next opens his mouth. “Shit, it’s nothing. Nevermind.” 

 

He is lying. “Fine,” Connor replies, looking away.

 

The silence is not uncomfortable to Connor—he combs idly through the case files on the serial assaults, reviewing witness statements from Lee and Madu with a clearer head than the day he took them. His head is clinical, no longer sullied by the whirlwind of doubt and terror that once brought him to his knees. All that is tucked away, neat and unobtrusive; waiting for when the time comes that he is ready for it—but that time is not now.

 

Reed, on the other hand, is what humans generally describe as  _ painfully _ awkward. He is looking down at his phone, but with distinct regularity his eyes turn back up to examine Connor before flitting down again as though ashamed to be caught looking. He seems somewhat lost in the wake of their discussion—which makes sense. Humans can only run a single active process at a time, and as such it takes some doing for them to parse information in large quantities or with significant emotional charge.

 

Connor acknowledges this; he allows Reed to stew in his thoughts.

 

“You took that, uh—serial assault, I think it was? Y’took it with you when you got reassigned, yeah?”

 

He blinks. Subject changes help to relieve tension after heavy conversations, and Connor is never adverse to making headway on a case. “That is correct.”

 

Reed hums, thoughtful. “I know the shit’s in the file, but I’m a bitch and I wanna hear it from you.” He is attempting to distract Connor on purpose, assuming he is still deeply bothered. “What do we know?”

 

Connor pauses, considering that. The feeling has passed, but he is willing to entertain Reed, if only to streamline his own experience. Perhaps he should be flattered—not that it matters much. He has direct access to the digital case file, and intends to paraphrase it as accurately as possible.

 

“The attacks have been going on for some months,” he explains, and immediately finds himself soothed by the routineness of it all. “At first they were so widely spaced we thought them to be isolated incidents. However, more recently they have become more frequent, with a more clearly established procedure and pattern which includes distinctive graffiti signatures at the scene of each crime.”

 

Nodding, Reed chimes in. “Sounds like they were testin’ the waters, got more confident as they went. How many d’we think it is, again?”

 

“That appears to be so, yes.” Connor dips his head, latticing his fingers together as he considers the evidence at hand. It is something of a relief, to examine and extrapolate from cold hard facts and nothing else. “Yes. Well, it is possible that we are looking at a group as small as three perpetrators—the witness reports are consistent in asserting that it was no fewer than that. Three perpetrators.” 

 

He pauses, offering Reed space for commentary. When he nods, urging him forward, Connor goes on, carried by the familiar rhythm of casework. “It may be possible, however, that the group is larger and more extensive than that. The attack radius is broad, without concentration on any areas in particular—this leads me to believe that our unsubs are either highly mobile, or acting across a network larger than individual attackers.”

 

“Android fuckin’ mafia,” Reed mutters, shaking his head. “Vics all human?” 

 

“Yes.” Connor straightens, then moves to sit down on the desk. “Both options present their own challenges…” He hums. “And so far, yes, humans are the only targets. With this and the apparent species of the perpetrators, we currently believe these attacks to be motivated by vengeance.”

 

Reed nods, but he does not appear to be entirely convinced. “Maybe,” he allows. “But maybe don’t be too sure it’s ‘droids doing the crime. Yeah, we’re short fingerprints and shit, but it’s not that hard to fake a mood ring and pretend to be an android.” He scoffs. “Think about it. Gloves hide fingerprints, they cover their faces so people can’t see they’re not any known model—bam. If I was pissy about you guys getting rights and I wanted people to join in bein’ mad about it, it’d make sense to stage some stabs and shit.”

 

“No stabbing has occurred,” Connor offers a wry smile. “Yet. Still, I don’t dispute that theory, Detective, but until we have more information we cannot be sure.”

 

A wolfish grin curls across Reed’s face. “Info, huh? I think you might be in luck, Robocop.” He moves back to his terminal, cracking his fingers for show before beginning a database search. “Gimme a few hours, and I’ll see what the fuck I can do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> additionally! we've broken 80k for this series!!! thank you so much for sticking with it <3 please let me know what you think of the new arc!


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